Tag Archives: original poems

Scene at a Park

Pigeon Flock by ~littlecorvid13 via deviantART

Blue rocks with pink feet
in the park, pigeons’
coos echo to amuse
the man on the bench.

Crossed legs, crossed brows,
the impatient man
looks high and low for someone
who will make the wait worth it.

Red lips and white smile
a head with red, flowing hair
walks up to the impatient
and whispers in hot breaths.

Her hand taps; he gasps.
the pair of strangers
departs for the night
while perturbed pigeons take flight.

July 23, 2012 – In the office. While waiting for 9PM.

I wrote this post for a colleague to teach her that poetry needs some sort of situation to work with. It’s where metaphors and metonymy latch on to. It’s what similes embellish. It’s what paradox and ironies bend into interesting interpretations.

I’m not especially proud of this draft yet, so if you could point out any suggestion, comment, or insight, please do. I’d appreciate a different point of view. Thanks!


Citation Incantation

Coming from the Philippines, I am stricken with panic at what’s happening to all netizens. One specific issue that I’d like to point out is plagiarism. While we do own blogs, something within the public domain, what we write should and is our property. As such, we need to protect ourselves from copyright infringement. This could be a bloody battle, so aside from copyright laws, I encourage everyone to chant this incantation for blog post protection.

In this post and on this hour,
I call upon citation styles’ power:
Chicago and MLA,
Turabian and APA,
and all the ones I failed to mention,
especially agencies of copyright protection,
I humbly ask that you take a moment
to protect my blog from copyright infringement.
Should there be anyone who steals my words
please [insert curse description here], my lords.
As it is, so shall it be,
I give power to this decree.

Bloggers have been plagiarized brazenly. May this incantation ward us from all evil that seeks to use our posts for their own selfish deeds. If you liked this post and genuinely care for your own ideas, please share, reblog, or tweet this — with attribution, of course. Thanks!


the umbrella man by ~lilreaper via deviantArt

How convenient
that the rain fell
before your tears,
affording me to share
one last moment
with you under
my umbrella.

Every drop
of frigid rain
taunted you to stay
under my tempting
warmth and dryness.

Your vain effort to stop
the rain from falling:

you reached out
to catch a drop
on your palm.

It still fell. Heavy
embodiment of sorrow

of loss

— of the cloud
that failed
to hold on,

— of the wind
to return the drops.

Words condensed on my lips,
waiting for that moment
when air gives way
to thunder.

How convenient
That the rain
lingered on. Every word
that rolled off my tongue
merely fell into the dark
glassy puddle
that the rain filled
to reflect my bowed head.

Finally, I poured a plead
to make you stay.

You nearly did,
But conveniently,
the rain
wandered away.

The rain made me pensive, so I chose to revise this old poem that I had lying around. Originally written on August 5th, 2003 and revised last on September 20th, 2008, this is the — hopefully — final version of it. 


Drowned in the Glass by ~Dogsfather via deviantArt

I stared hard
at a glass of water,
wanting to drown
in the wisdom it shares
with the deep sea.

I closed my eyes
and drowned in darkness.
Always in the periphery,
lamp fish
with hypnotic lights swim.
I try to follow
into the throat of the deep black.

Pressure rose as I descended deeper.
My ears popped. My heart pounded
with dread of shades that swim
in the abyss.

Suddenly, I felt the feeling of mud
beneath my feet.
I have arrived at Atlantis.
I opened my eyes
and I saw myself
reflected on the glass of water.

I’d say that this is a continuation of the Great Migration of my earlier works. This poem was originally written on August 14, 2006, and I’ve posted this in one of my old blogs. I’ve revised it a bit, but essentially, I preserved the main imagery here. 

Lost Innocence

While I was reading Wislawa Szymborska’s bio on PoemHunter.com, I felt inspired to write a short poem about innocence. I didn’t plan for it to have a specific meaning, and it could be faulty on some areas, so I’d like to offer it up for critique. Here it is!

Innocence, whenever someone loses his or hers,
Always finds its way back to its owner.
On wagons with wooden wheels,
On trains that have tracks of steel,
To lost innocence, it doesn’t matter.
It always finds its way back to its master.
It knocks on doors and windows,
Rings on doorbells follow.
To announce when it arrives,
It shouts “I survive!”
It disturbs rest or slumber
just to find its way back to its owner.
But lost innocence never stays.
Even if it went a long way,
It just wants its owner to know
That it’s been lost long ago.
Upon that disturbing realization
During the long-awaited reunion,
With a slight shudder, it will utter,
“I’ve been lost and stay lost forever.”
Then, it loses form, it loses power
Home in the arms of its master.

It’s a work in progress, so your feedback is most welcomed. What do you think of it? Does it make sense? Feel free to critique in the comments section or write a blog post about it. Thanks!

Scarlet Sea

Blood on Cloak by *mohzart via deviantART

Every drop of water longs for the ocean.
Even lakes secretly wish to escape
the strong embrace of earth through erosion.

Some humans, though only 70% water,
act like desperate droplets of the sea
that let dams break and glasses shatter.

They get trapped in trenches of despair
that bogs and stagnates their sincerest efforts
of secreting steaming sweat and salty tears.

Then, they slowly wallow in turbid insanity
offers a seemingly sound and simple solution:
“Slash your veins. Simulate a scarlet sea.”

Poetic Excuse

Shadow Creek, California by Peter Essick via National Geographic's Photo of the Day

While on my commute to the office, I got trapped in traffic jam. My usual 45 minutes to the office took me approximately an hour, and that made me feel that I’ll be late. Like any good employee, I notified my direct supervisor that I might be late. However, I didn’t settle for the usual text message because during my commute, I try to learn (or should I say relearn) writing skills that I have forgotten. This past two weeks, I’ve been reading Rules of the Dance by Mary Oliver, a book that’s all about metric poetry, so I decided to make use of the time that was wasting away to practice my iambic. So I wrote this:

Hello there, Mich, my dear.
How trapped in traffic I,
So I am texting ere
To let you know my state.
Simply put, I will be late.

In my mind, I was giggling despite the agitation of getting stuck in traffic since the quintain is – I must boastingly say – witty. Knowing my boss full well, I expected her to reply, but it took her a long time to do so. When I finally received her reply, it said:

Don’t fret! Write instead
Drabbles and tales of terror
As cars slowly go.

That’s why! She wrote a haiku in response! After reading the text message, I laughed audibly. I only realized it when I saw that they were all looking at me like I was a loon, but quite frankly, I couldn’t care less. I was delighted with the exchange of poetic talent that happened during that contrastingly gruesome commute.


Lightning by NivisTigris via deviantART

After Staring at the Sun, the blog that gave birth to the Metaphosaurus Project, I’m posting a poem as the Velociwritetor’s first entry for this endeavor. This is a poem that I’ve written last September 29, 2011 on another blog, which is now in limbo. I’ve revised it, turning one of my friend’s comments into consideration. Thank you, Randwin, for taking the time to read my work. I hope that you’ll find it up to par with poetic standards, and I welcome comments, both good and bad, since they equally help me improve my writing. Without further ado:


A betrayal is getting struck by lightning
after the storm
has gone by unnoticed.
It leaves the victim
stunned, not by the bolt
but with the jolt
of truth recently revealed.
The pain of betrayal
is not the searing heat
of one hundred million volts,
but by the smell
of burnt flesh,
and hair

This poem was inspired by a time in my life when I felt betrayed. Since it’s already water under the bridge, I won’t go into details anymore. During that time, though, it was raining. I could have sworn that there were lightning bolts in the horizon. I’d like to think that it’s my muse’s way of inspiring me to write the poem, juxtaposing the feeling and the weather disturbance. However, that is debatable. I’m just glad that I was able to turn a negative emotion into something creative.

Last Words

I'm a Fake / Art by Keizie / via deviantART

After my very first post, another blogger by the name of Corey Booth, author of ClownRhymes, liked my post. As always, WordPress recommended that I visit his blog to see if I’ll like his posts, too. I put it off for a long time, but ultimately, I did drop by his blog. That was a fateful day because I saw that he was starting a poetry challenge. Basically, the idea is that he’ll post a poem title, and he’ll let us write a poem for it. Then, he’ll select three poems that he liked, and he’ll ask his readers to vote for their favorite. Of course, the poem with the most votes will win.

I missed the first week because I saw it too late, but I promised myself that I’ll rise up to it this week. This week, we’re playing with “Last Words,” so here’s my entry:

Last Words

“I’ll see you later,”
he said to his mistress,
knowing that never ever,
will he be feeling her soft caress.

“Think of me while you’re away,”
replied the enchantress,
hoping for that fateful day
when he will fill her loneliness.

“Welcome home darling,”
said his wife like a 30s actress,
slyly smiling at her cunning
before finally becoming a murderess.

Such is the irony that we’ll see
when we look at the last words of these three.

Originally, I had planned a serious poem, given that the title has Biblical allusion. However, I wanted the poem to rhyme, so the poem went the other direction; it’s definitely not serious, and totally morbid. I know that I can do better if I really took time to work on a poem, but I haven’t written any poetic work recently. I just hope that you’ll smile when you read this.